Blood Sports

by Eden Robinson

  “I’m doing the sheets,” she said, giving his ass a sharp slap. “Get up for a minute.”

  Tom stumbled to his feet and waited until she stripped the mattress before lying back down.

  Mel woke him by sitting on his chest, reaching forward and lifting his eyelids.

  “Daddy’s awake,” Tom said. “You can let go now.”

  “Hah,” Mel said.

  The tattoo artist’s bare chest and back were covered in tsunami waves, blue and green with white foam. The waves undulated when he moved, a human ocean. His earlobes were stretched to his shoulders, loops of pink flesh. The tattoo artist shaved the downy hair from a spot on Paulie’s right forearm, halfway between her wrist and her elbow. He wiped the skin with an alcohol tow-elette and pressed the transfer paper against her skin. When he lifted the paper, a blue template of the tattoo she wanted was in place. The tattoo artist revved the tattoo gun, pumping the ink into the needle. “Last chance to back out.”

  Paulie flexed her hand, squeezed it tight, and then relaxed it, staring at the template for the tattoo, “1 July 1995” written in cursive script, bordered with a black ribbon banner. Paulie reached out to Tom with her free hand and he pulled his stool closer. She smiled at him. Her hand was clammy. He smiled back.

  “I don’t have another day one in me,” she said. “I’m tired of going back to day one.”

  The tattoo artist nodded. “Strength, sister.”

  “I’m good to go,” Paulie said.

  He moved his reading lamp and spotlighted the tattoo. The needle drew tiny beads of blood that the artist dabbed away with a paper towel.

  Paulie grimaced. “No more day ones.”

  A squat, orange moon hung low, rippling as it hit the mountains. Downtown lights jittered in the heat. People sat on their porches and balconies, doors and windows open hopefully, ready for an evening breeze. A pack of kids ran around a front yard, screaming through the sprinkler. Traffic slowed on The Drive, cars crawling along to avoid the jaywalking pedestrians.

  Tom and Paulie shared an iced coffee, hung out on a sidewalk patio to escape the oven they called their apartment. Paulie nodded off in her chair, a quick nap. Mel had long since passed out in her stroller. Tom waited as long as he could and then gently shook Paulie awake.

  “Sorry,” Tom said. “Duty calls.”

  The first fireworks thumped in the distance. Paulie frowned, turned her head to the TV inside. The waitress had switched channels to show the Canada Day festivities.

  “You’re really late,” Paulie said. “Why didn’t you wake me?”

  “Lucky Lou’s won’t fall apart without me,” Tom said.

  Tom walked them home and, despite Paulie’s protests, right up to their apartment.

  “Don’t forget milk,” she said, before she closed the door behind him.

  Tom listlessly flipped through an old Enquirer. A woman in Kentucky, he read, had hired a priest to perform an exorcism on her toaster, because it left the mark of Satan in every slice. Apparently, the Prince of Darkness had his slow shifts, too.

  Even though the coveted daytime shifts paid less and had a steady, irate flow of harried commuters, graveyard was the least-loved shift at Lucky Lou’s. At night, after the neighbouring stores and coffee shops closed, Lou’s glass wall overlooked a deserted, unlit parking lot on one side, and Commercial Drive on the other. Tom always felt like he was in a glowing fish tank and, given that Lou’s had been robbed four times in the last two years, he doubted that the excellent lighting was a deterrent.

  None of the women would work overnight. First, there was the safety issue, and second, there was Stan, the owner’s tattooed and pierced nephew with a penchant for battle fatigues and semi-automatics. He’d originally run Lou’s, but had been demoted until he was in charge of the graveyard. Stan tended to take hour-long breaks with damp and wrinkled mags like Shaved Slaves or Commando Gang Bang, which he left around the bathroom when he finished.

  Not many of the guys liked working with Stan either. Tom hadn’t been given an option for shifts since he had the least seniority. As fellow insomniacs went, even though Stan didn’t pull his weight, even though he spent most of the time in the back on the coin-operated Internet computers playing games or visiting porn sites, at least he didn’t give a shit what you did either.

  Tom noticed a black van in the parking lot. He wasn’t sure why he noticed it or why it gave him the creeps. It was a black van like any other black van, parked and dark, the driver hidden behind tinted windows.

  5 JULY 1998

  “Knock, knock!” Mike’s voice boomed.

  They’d left the door open to air the place out between coats. Mike walked in, carrying a large fruit basket with a teddy bear on top. Tom stopped washing his brush and stood.

  “Hey,” he said, surprised. He’d thought the catch-up-with-you-later thing was a politeness. He hadn’t expected Mike to call and certainly not to show up.

  “Bad time?” Mike said, looking around at the tarp-covered furniture and the freshly painted walls.

  “No, no. We’re finishing up. Paulie! Company!”

  “What?” Paulie shouted back.

  “We have a visitor.”

  Paulie wandered into the living room, her baseball cap askew, her face smudged with Lemon Zing and smeared eyeliner. She stopped when she saw Mike.

  “Paulina Mazenkowski?” Mike said.

  “Yeah, that’s me.”

  “Mike McConnell. We went to high school together.”

  She stared at him, frowning. “Sorry. Don’t remember you. Mommy brain, I guess.”

  “This is from my partner, Greer,” Mike said. “She insisted. I was all for beer and pizza.”

  Paulina stared at the basket. “Hey. Thanks. This is nice. Do you want something to drink? We’ve got Pepsi, apple juice, or milk.”

  “I’m fine, thanks. Where do you want this?”

  “The kitchen would be great. Thanks.”

  “How you holding up?” Tom said.

  She groaned. “Stick a fork in me, I’m done. I’m going to go crash with Mel.”

  “Got your keys?” Tom said.

  She jangled them, walking away without looking back.

  Mike returned, shaking his head. “How the hell did you hook up with Mazenkowski?”

  “Dumb luck.”

  “Huh. Never saw her as the, uh, settled-down type.”

  Tom shrugged. “People change.”

  Mike looked around. “Where’re you guys sleeping tonight?”

  “The couple down the hall’s letting us crash in their living room. Back in a sec. I need to scrub off a few layers of smell.”

  Tom took a bird bath in the bathroom sink. He towelled off and threw his shirt in the garbage. There was no saving it after the marathon weekend of priming and painting in the summer heat. He grabbed a relatively clean T-shirt from the bedroom, and a Pepsi from the kitchen, where Mike was sitting at the table.

  “So,” Mike said. “You’re a dad now.”

  “Yup.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Not bad.”

  “What else are you up to these days?”

  Tom popped the Pepsi. “Paulie’s got the reno bug.”

  “I can see that.”

  Tom sat across from Mike, who pushed the fruit basket to the side.

  “Where’d you go? You dropped off the map after Grade Ten.”

  “We moved around. How about you?”

  “Bummed around Europe after high school. Bartended down under.”

  “Nice,” Tom said.

  “Yeah. Starting second-year psych.”

  “Bull fucking shit,” Tom said. “You’re going to be a shrink?”

  “I’m thinking I’d make a pretty good shrink.”

  “Seriously?” Tom said. He waited for Mike to break out in his hee-haw laugh. “You’re yanking my chain. Right?”

  “You got a problem with that?”

  “What happened to Rage Against the Machine, the suits
are killing us, the –”

  “All right, all right. I was a kid. I was mouthing off.”

  “What does your aunt say?”

  Mike grinned. “Lots. She’s trying to steer me into law. Civil. Corporate. Anything with a high snore factor.”

  “Good God.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well,” Tom said. “You could article with Evan’s firm.”

  “They got divorced.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah, they waited until my grad year to have their big blow out. Fun times.”

  “What happened?”

  “The usual. Hey, how’s your mom doing?”

  “No clue. We haven’t talked for a while.”

  “Oh.”

  “You’re too young to have kids … you’re ruining your lives … blah, blah, blah.”

  “Oh.”

  “Are you sure you don’t want a drink?”

  “Any beer?”

  “You’re shit out of luck, bud. We’re a dry household. Paulie’s on the program and booze fucks up my meds. You can grab some beers though. There’s a liquor store –”

  “Pepsi’s fine, Tom.”

  Tom got Mike a Pepsi from the fridge and tossed it to him. He stood in front of the fridge, wishing he could climb in and sit there.

  “Are you going to school?” Mike said.

  “Got a job at Lucky Lou’s.”

  “Christ, Bauer. Why are you wasting your time in a corner store?”

  “The shifts are flexible, and the store’s right up the street. What are you up to these days?”

  “Security guard at UBC.”

  Tom started laughing.

  “What’s so funny?” Mike said.

  “After all the shit you pulled on the mall cops, don’t you think it’s ironic?”

  “Shut up.”

  “You shut up.”

  A rumbling roll started downstairs, sounding like a bowling ball going down its alley over and over.

  “Oh, boy,” Tom said.

  “What the hell is that?”

  “The apartment below us has some skater kids. They were reasonable until one of them pulled up the carpets. They’ve turned it into a skate park.”

  “Have you complained?”

  “Everyone’s complained.” He walked to the living room, taking the tarp off the CD player. He turned the speakers so they were facing the floor. “As long as the kids pay their rent, the owners aren’t doing anything. The police already visited them a million times. The kids laugh it off.”

  “I’ll go down and talk to them.”

  “No, no, Mike. Relax. We’ve got it covered.” The phone rang. “Yellow.”

  “I have Albert on my cellular phone. He says he’s ready,” Mrs. Tsing said in her stately, carefully enunciated speech. “My stereo is cued as well.”

  “Just a minute. I can’t find the CD. Up, here it is. Putting it in the drive, aaaaand I’m good to go.”

  “Shall I count down?” she said.

  “Be my guest,” Tom said.

  “Three, two, one, and play.”

  After a second of silence, Celine Dion began crooning “The Power of Love.” Loud boos from the apartment below, followed by banging and shouts of, “You losers! You suck!”

  “Heh, heh, heh,” Tom said. “Any of the divas are skater-repellents, but no one can touch Celine. Come on. Let’s watch the rats desert the sinking ship.”

  They walked to the front window. Celine began to build. The skaters pumped their own music, but Celine rose above it, furiously passionate, slightly out of sync on three different stereo systems.

  Tom leaned out the window, talking louder over the crescendoing offensive: “Paulie was in favour of an old-fashioned smack-down, but this way is surprisingly effective. There they go.”

  “You fucking losers!” The tallest of the boys shouted up at them from the lawn. “I’m going to kick you in your hairy cunts!”

  “Come here and we’ll see who kicks who, punk!” Mike yelled.

  “Suck me off, motherfucker!” He grabbed his crotch.

  “I’ll kick your ass into tomorrow, you little punk!” Mike said, his face going heart-attack red.

  “Fuck you!” Skater Boy said.

  “Weird, huh?” Tom said, suddenly feeling nostalgic. “Five years ago, everyone was calling us the punks. Now we’re the grown-ups.”

  “That was never me,” Mike said, scowling.

  Tom grinned.

  “Hey, dickless wonder,” Skater Boy said, “yeah, I’m talking to you, Bauer! You gonna sic your psycho bitch on me?”

  “What?” Tom shouted, cupping his ear. “Did you say you’re a Celine fan, too?”

  Skater Boy pointed at him. “You’re dead, motherfucker! Do you hear me? You’re dead!”

  “She’s on tv tonight!” Tom said. “I’ll tape it for you!”

  “Faggot!”

  “What? You want to hear this song again?”

  “Go to hell.”

  “One more time for the Celine fan on the lawn!” Tom said.

  The skater boy’s friends nudged each other, having a chuckle among themselves.

  Skater Boy went rigid with rage, his voice lifting an octave. “You goof! You fucking goof!”

  “That’s the spirit! Sing along with Dion!”

  “Tad likes Di-on, Tad likes Di-on,” his friends teased.

  Tad chased his friends, who took off, howling.

  “Tad’s going to stomp you,” Mike said. “You know that, don’t you?”

  “He’s okay. He has no taste in music, but he’s okay.”

  They pushed the furniture from the centre of the room back into its usual position. Mike did most of the heavy lifting while Tom acted as guide. Finally, they pushed the couch in front of the TV and flopped down. Tom studied the walls. Lemon Zing had a Day-Glo-green undertone that hadn’t been noticeable in the swatches. Tom hoped the Zing mellowed when it cured. If it didn’t, they’d have to put up lots of pictures to tone it down, because he wasn’t painting again for a long, long time.

  Mike checked his watch. “I should head’er.”

  “Drop by for dinner one night,” Tom said. “We’re not fancy cooks, but the food’s hot and there’s lots of it.”

  “We’ll take you up on that. Greer hasn’t mastered anything beyond the stir-fry,” Mike said. “And I’m still working on KD.”

  Tom laughed.

  “But seriously,” Mike said. “If you need help with people bothering you, just call and –”

  “They’re good kids,” Tom said. “They’re just acting out.”

  Mike nodded, his eyes shifting around the room. “I hear your cousin’s getting day parole next week.”

  Tom stopped smiling. “How’d you hear about that?”

  Mike sighed. “I ran into your mom. She’s worried.”

  “Forget it, man. You know her deal better than anyone. She wants attention, that’s all.”

  “I remember Jeremy was a number-one freak show.”

  “You met him once,” Tom said.

  “After he moved in with you guys, you started showing up to school with bruises and burns.”

  “It was a bad year. Jer was the least of my problems.”

  “Bad in what way? Illegal bad or personal bad?” Mike said.

  “Jer was an asshole,” Tom said. “But he was there for us when no one else could be bothered. I owe him a lot. He and Mom are feuding. I don’t want to play ref.”

  After a minute, Mike said, “Fair enough.”

  6 JULY 1998

  Paulie took the teddy bear off the fruit basket. “What was his name again?”

  “Mike McConnell.”

  “Old boyfriend?”

  “Just a friend.”

  “Are you sure?” She held the bear up. “I think he’s sweet on you.”

  “Sorry to disappoint you, hon, but Mike is so straight he squeaks.”

  “And here I was all ready to be jealous.”

  Paulie handed the b
ear to Mel, who was sitting on the floor. She chewed its ear for a minute then tossed it aside and scooted for the tarps they’d piled by the door. Paulie followed her, lifting the tarps out of reach. Mel motored around the furniture, interested in the new arrangement.

  “Well? What did Squeaky want?”

  “He wanted to catch up.”

  “I don’t remember him.”

  “He was my height back then. Scrawny. Enough attitude to lift-off the space shuttle.”

  “Nope. Nothing. Mel. No, baby. Tom, can you get her?”

  Tom scooped Mel up before she tipped the garbage over.

  “Maybe I’m getting Alzheimer’s,” she said.

  “Me and Mike were under the radar in high school. I was anyways until … well, you know.”

  “Yeah,” Paulina said. “I know.”

  Tom checked the clock above the front doors. Two more hours until the morning shift showed. The security buzzer bleated as a young guy in a baseball cap walked in. Behind the man, Tom noticed the black van cruising into the empty parking lot. The distance from the shop blurred the Crime Stoppers–worthy details like the licence plates, model, and make, but he was sure it was the same van that had been through the lot twice before.

  Tom ignored the urge to lock the front doors. There were loads of non-robbing reasons people would wait in a deserted parking lot with their van’s headlights off and the engine running. Maybe this was a lost tourist who kept stopping to check his map. Maybe this was some horndog picking up women. Maybe this was just some dealer waiting for a drop. The van turned out of the lot and disappeared down the deserted street. Tom massaged his temples. Or maybe sleep deprivation was making him bug-eyed.

  Tom absently tracked the customer on the security cameras. He was a little taller than Tom, body-builder buff, black muscle shirt and sweats. When he turned his back, he had a thin brown ponytail tied at the nape of his neck. The guy lingered over the adult magazines, snatched a Hustler, and brought it to the counter.

  “A 6/49 Quick Pick,” the guy said. “How much is your Internet time?”

  “A dollar for twenty minutes.”

  “Huh,” the guy said. “Pretty quiet tonight. Is anyone on the computer or are you alone?”